


neither the end nor the beginning

by voksen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Gen, Javert gets a dog friend, this is totally pointless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Javert gets a pug</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither the end nor the beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A bad end](https://archiveofourown.org/works/766428) by [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato). 



> Carl is from acaramelmacchiato's "A Bad End."

Between the Pont au Change and the Pont Notre-Dame the water of the Seine runs deep and swift; the embankment is higher here than in many places along the river, the parapet taller, for the rapids are more dangerous here than at any other point in Paris.  It is a fact Javert knows well; it is what has brought him to this spot.  
  
When he looks down over the stone wall he sees nothing, as if he looks into an endless and infinite void: the night is black and there is no moon to catch the water; all the stars are blotted out by clouds that threaten rain but will not break and the smoke that rises in the city behind him.  It is as well.  
  
He reaches into the pocket of his greatcoat and removes a silver snuffbox, turning it over in his hands with all the appearance and none of the effects of deep thought. In a minute’s time he sets it carefully, unopened and unused, upon the parapet.  He could not have said why, unless it were that he felt, unthinking, that bearing with him the instrument of his one vice - perhaps not his _singular_ vice - his one intentional vice - to his eternal resignation would be unseemly. To parade a minor sin before the great Judge, as if by doing so he attempted to conceal the greater.  
  
But it is without conscious mind that he sets it upon the parapet.  That done, he brings his hand to his hat, with intent to remove it rather than waste it in the fall; he has in fact begun to lift it from his head when there is a peculiar noise from behind him.  
  
He spins, his hand falling to his side where his nightstick ought to be - to be interrupted at this, to be caught in the act or seen - a wave of anticipation and shame rises up, but his eyes search the road behind him and find no one.  With pounding heart he turns back to the bridge and sets his hands on the cool stone to calm himself.  This will not do. He is imagining things - the world has turned itself out of order, and now his mind is following it.  There is no one there; no one will see him.  
  
Javert has no sooner lifted his hand from the parapet when the noise comes again; a wet, rasping gasp, like a choking asthmatic or a drowned ghost.  
  
This time when he turns around he thinks to look down.  
  
By the lamppost, a few yards from where he stands, there is - he thinks it is a small dog.  It is the strangest and, without a speck of doubt, by far the ugliest dog he has ever seen, all over wrinkles and great folds of fat, its face crushed inwards as if mangled by horsehoof.  As he looks at it it opens its mouth and wheezes again.  
  
Drawn by the sheer grotesquerie he takes a step away from the parapet, approaching it slowly.  It breathes at him but does not essay a bark, a growl, or indeed any sort of noise or movement at all. In the lamplight he sees it has a collar hidden amidst the rolls, though the light is too dim - or the pug too fat - for him to read the words marked onto the leather.  
  
In any case the dog is obviously not a stray - for one, it must have been cared for; it seems the least likely thing he has ever seen to be able to take care of itself; and for two, the collar clinches it.  And yet looking at it offends his sensibilities. Who could ever want to keep a dog like this?  
  
He has worked with dogs in the past, of course, guard dogs of various breeds and temperaments as well as ill-mannered curs meant to plague the police instead of aid them.  He has some small acquaintance with smaller, useless dogs, in seeing them on the streets: fluffy, well-kept, neat little things, meant for a lady’s arms, with pert black noses and either foxy or lamblike ears.  This - thing - he does not know what to think of it.  It jars him in a peculiar and familiar way, a tiny and ridiculous echo of Valjean’s impossibilities, and suddenly he is laughing, a wild, broken, mindless laughter that brings him to his knees in front of the small fat dog, bracing his hands on the pavement.  His hat falls from his head and rolls away; he almost does not notice.  
  
When the fit has passed he stays trembling on hands and knees, head bent, mind shattered. Nothing has changed.  Two paths remain; he must get up and choose one or the other; the one is impossible yet; he must —  
  
The dog yawns, loudly, and sighs in his face.  It smells of long-dead fish. Javert coughs, chokes, and stumbles to his feet.  “You, monsieur," he says to it severely. In the back of his mind he is aware that he is speaking to a dog. He ignores the thought.  
  
The dog sits. It yawns odiferously again and looks as if it is contemplating lying down.  Javert is struck with an equal and immense weariness at the sight, as the ache of his body finally catches up and surpasses the ache of his head, and he thinks suddenly not of the sleep that awaits him in the river below, but of his hard, narrow bed and of the small bottle of wine and wedge of cheese that await on his sideboard.  
  
He pushes the image away; it is a false comfort - but it is a reminder that a worldly task waits before him, undone and untended.  Someone - some impossible someone’s - pet is loose; it is more likely to breathe itself to death in a ditch somewhere than go feral and become a nuisance, but it ought to be taken care of. Bending, Javert picks the dog up; it wheezes strenuously but puts up no more fight than that.  He supports it gingerly with one arm and turns the collar to read: _Carl un chien_.  
  
"Yes! Very good!" he says to himself - or to Carl - “Carl un chien. I suppose they thought someone might not know the difference on seeing you. Un chien - hell!"  For Carl has just sneezed wetly all over the sleeve of his coat.  
  
There is no address that he can see anywhere on the collar and so it is with grim steps that Javert carries Carl away.  His steps tend first towards the police station at the corner — halfway there, they falter. He considers the wet and shining spray of mucus on his coat; he considers his bare head, his forgotten hat; he considers the very appearance of the dog in his arms.  He swears, loudly. He swears again when that does not help.  
  
He turns his steps back to his own apartment.  In the morning, when he has dealt with his coat and the issue of the hat and has possibly figured out what sort of _un chien_ the godforsaken thing is, he will find someone to deal with the issue of the dog, and then - then he will finish the rest of the business.  
  
The Seine, after all, cannot go anywhere, and neither can he.


End file.
